


[fic] D.Gray-Man, "Separation"

by Harukami



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 18:09:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/409438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harukami/pseuds/Harukami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <br/><p><b>Separation</b><br/>
D.Gray-man<br/>
14th/Allen<br/>
Not safe for work. Somehow <span class="ljuser"><a href="http://box.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://box.dreamwidth.org/"><b>box</b></a></span>, <span class="ljuser"></span><a href="http://nekokoban.dreamwidth.org/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://nekokoban.dreamwidth.org/"><b>nekokoban</b></a> and I ended up in an awesome unholy pact of promising each other 14th/Allen while we wait through next month's hiatus. Set after ch 212.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[fic] D.Gray-Man, "Separation"

He passes out not as he has passed out in the past, with darkness closing in and a ringing in his ears. No, this time, he passes out as if yanked under; he can almost feel the hand grasping his ankle and pulling him into the darkness. It's sudden and all-encompassing and he almost can't breathe as everything goes dark. Like being pulled into water. Like being pulled into a pool of dark matter, like souls he has seen sucked into oblivion, begging him for help.

But he does not beg as he snaps to awareness again trapped inside his own mind, chained to a throne in a strange and twisted forest. The sky is black; around him, crystalline white trees rise, bare of leaves but their branches splitting so finely they almost seem feathered, twisted and grasping like hands.

"Let me go," Allen Walker says. It isn't begging. He says it firmly, an order, a demand. "Let me _go_ , Nea."

As soon as he's named, Nea stands before him, smiling. As before, he's dressed like Allen last was -- so he wears a clown suit: baggy pants, loose belly shirt, large sad pompoms hanging from his chest. There are smears of white greasepaint on his face, still, as there must be some on Allen's, but they stand out more obviously against Nea's darker skin.

(Is his skin still lighter? Allen wonders. Does he look to Johnny and Kanda as Nea looks to him now? If the only difference is on the inside, and Nea takes over, will Nea pretend to be him? Will either of them believe it? Surely neither of them will believe it.)

"Don't think so little of me," Nea says, and kneels before him. It makes him shorter than Allen, and he leans up between Allen's spread legs and touches his face, smears greasepaint with a thumb. Allen watches the same smear happen on Nea's cheek. "Of all the crimes I could commit, pretending to be the person you are now isn't one. I am myself. You are me. There's no pretense involved."

"I've never been you," Allen says.

Nea's eyes are beautiful. They're golden, of course, but a dark gold, a burnished gold, and although his pupils are blown -- perhaps because of Allen's unconsciousness, perhaps because of how dark the forest is but for the glow from the trees -- there seem to be stars in his eyes, glitters of light.

"You've been me for nearly as long as you can remember," Nea says. He keeps stroking, thumb gentle. "You've always been mine, "Allen". It's just that you're resisting me being you. That's not fair."

"Fair?" Allen chokes out a laugh but can't get more out; Nea slides fingers into his mouth; two, three, a whole hand, and presses down on his tongue. His fingers taste sweet, not the expected salt, but Allen gags nevertheless from the pressure in his mouth.

"Fair," Nea echoes back. "You share yourself with everyone else, after all."

Allen can't retort, though he wants to -- _I am me, I'm only me, I've always been me and I'll always be me, and nobody can take that away from me_ \-- but Nea's inside him, so he imagines Nea can hear it anyway. He gags, chokes, as Nea slides his hand deeper, tickles the inside of his throat. For one horrifying instant he imagines Nea peeling him open, breaking his jaw wide, and climbing in there full body -- but then Nea's arm is withdrawing, slick with saliva.

Nea licks his fingertips.

Clearing his throat around the stinging horseness, Allen glares at him. "You're the one who should be in these chains, Nea."

"Neither of us would need these chains if you would just join with me," Nea says, coaxing, soft, his wet fingertips stroking the line of Allen's jaw. "We were meant to be two halves of a whole. One being with two names. To share so thoroughly that we mingle beyond what you recognize as you and me."

"How romantic," Allen says sharply, jerking his chin away.

Nea laughs softly, clunks his forehead into Allen's. Allen can feel Nea's breath on his face, on his mouth, feel Nea's chest move against his.

"I can be romantic," Nea says, equally sharp despite the heaviness of his eyelids, the gentleness of his expression, "if that's what it takes for you to stop treating this like an invasion."

Allen opens his mouth to protest and Nea leans in, slides his tongue into Allen's mouth. Past kisses have tasted like something -- the sugar of the kisses of prostitutes who kissed him fondly as they left his Master, the spice of Road's kiss -- but Nea's tastes like nothing at all, tastes only the way the inside of Allen's mouth already tastes. Of course, he thinks, of course ...

...but it feels different, feels like a _kiss_ , tongue winding with his, lips catching at his, teeth scraping at his lower lip, pulling it away from his mouth, Nea's breath gusting into his mouth so that when he inhales sharply as Nea squirms against him, as the chains clank between their bodies, he sucks Nea's breath into his lungs. It feels like a kiss, feels better than kisses Allen has had before, feels _good_ \--

\-- and that's the risk, isn't it, Allen thinks, closing his eyes against the star-bright gold of Nea's gaze, closing his eyes so he doesn't show the heat in his own eyes as Nea nudges his head to one side, bites and suckles at his throat, straddles him fully and grinds. That's the risk, pleasure, feeling good when he knows that to give in will be his destruction --

 _It won't,_ Nea whispers, so close to him that it sounds like it's in his head, so close that his lips and tongues catch at the rim and shell of Allen's ear. _We are destruction, but who would destroy himself? There are other things we can tear down, my Allen. I have given you so much, my Allen, my Allen, my Allen..._

I'm not, Allen tries to say, but he feels so sluggish with Nea crawling around inside his mouth, inside his veins, inside his heart. Yours, he tries to say, opens his mouth and stretches up against the chains as if he could break free, feels laughter against his mouth, inside him, groans as Nea engulfs him.

He opens his eyes onto blackness and tears, feels Nea moving against him, feels the grind of their bodies together and fuck it, he arches into it, moves into it, pants for air around the darkness, feels that eagerness that he feels every time Nea gets close enough because this is -- this is -- oh, hell, it's something he wants, it's a thing he wants badly, that thrill, that enjoyment, that pleasure in everything he is, can't always be a martyr he thinks (Nea thinks), can't always turn every decision in life into a sacrifice he thinks (Nea thinks) and he struggles for pleasure, feels his mouth split open in a grin, feels Nea's tongue in his mouth, feels Nea's voice in his mouth, stretches luxuriously against his chains which don't seem so constricting any more, which move with him like they're a part of their body, which melt into each other. He pants, feels Nea's legs melting into his, feels Nea's arms melting into his, feels Nea's chest melting in his, feels their groins melting together with the force of their movements against each other, that friction, that constant friction since the first time he started to see Nea's face in the mirror, that constant hopeless friction he can't deny he wants.

He opens his eyes into darkness and thinks their faces have melded together and nobody could hear his cries except Nea regardless and he is so close, Nea is so close, they are so close, he is Nea and they are so close to what they _want_ \--

 _Allen, can you hear me? I'm right here. We're right here waiting for you, Allen. Allen, Allen, Allen--_ Johnny is calling him home.

"No," Allen says, strangled, against the force of his orgasm, seizes the pleasure of climax as a weapon and shoves Nea out of him with it, still jerking, still arching up, still gasping for breath, but _sex_ is _more than one_ and after you finish you have to _separate_ , isn't that the way of it, that let-down instinct in the hollow aftermath of pleasure, that realization that you are always separate, that you can only ever be yourself and not the person with you, that moment where joining falters and one falls into two. He pants for air as Nea's face looks down at him.

They're separate, we're separate, Allen thinks, and takes the disappointment he feels as his shield. That is the sacrifice to remain human. He can't forget that. He can't forget what it means to be alone.

Nea looks sad, strokes Allen's face again, as he had at the start. His pupils are blown with pleasure and his mouth is wet and he and Allen are nude as the day they were born and Nea says, "But it's going to be a long night, "Allen"."


End file.
